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He was lying there again, arms folded with an indifferent expression that could only be closely described as a scowl. It was as if someone was forcing him to be there, and not like he was there in the nurse’s office to demand a university-wide service. Crowe felt only mildly irritated that it was himself again who was being asked to provide it. He’d lost track of how many times Solivan stumbled in, mumbled something or other about tripping down the stairs or being scratched by a stray cat.
But this was the seventh time that Crowe specifically was working when Sol arrived. There was no one else in that wing of the clinic. The rooms beside them were vacant. Crowe was left in charge for the “twenty minute” lunch break the nurses were taking. He’d call them if there was an emergency.
When the familiar sound of Crowe’s shoes echoed from the next room and then sounded towards the curtained-off bed Sol laid in, the latter preemptively rolled his eyes and swung his legs over the side of it. The bruises on his shoulders, across his chest, and surely covering his forearms beneath his clothes were of little consequence, minus the occasional wince when he briefly forgot they existed. He knew the routine already as well– “playing hooky” had come to an end. His visible wounds would be bandaged up and he’d be sent out in minutes, especially if the ever-diligent Crowe had anything to do with it. Crowe was going to insist that every gash be disinfected and every scrape be bandaged, if only
“I’ll have you back to class in no time,” He’d all but chirp with a reassuring smile, despite the malice that lingered in his touch, reserved for Sol’s recognition alone. Crowe finally arrived with a huff, pulling back the curtain with a slowness that betrayed his barely contained frustration. Yet he still had the audacity to flash that practiced, polite smile in Sol’s face.
“Which staircase did this to you, Solivan?” Crowe asked as he rummaged through a drawer beside the bed for supplies. No time for pleasantries today, it seemed. There was an open disbelief in his tone that anyone else would’ve found all too accusatory to direct towards someone who was clearly a victim of some form of bullying, or whatever story Sol let people believe. The weeping bruise beneath Sol’s eye throbbed with pain at the acknowledgement, prompted to spread once more by the change in position. His eyelid twitched involuntarily at the sensation. Crowe’s eyes glanced at Sol from his peripheral view, and he barely held back what could only be called a frown.
“The one in the– in the Bio hall,” A thick stream of blood trailed down his cheek. Sol sucked in a breath, “I forget the name.” The lies never ended. Even when they had a great deal less effort put into them than those Sol told any of the school nurses in the past.
“Right,” Crowe replied rather flatly. Crowe, only vaguely recognizing the other man as someone who sat in the back in one or two of his classes, knew better than to expect the truth from the beginning. Crowe knew a majority of his classmates, especially the people in his year. He had some vague understanding of all of them except Sol. From the first time Crowe was tasked with treating him, he knew that nothing that came from Sol’s mouth could be trusted. For all Crowe knew, those scratches on Sol’s arms were defensive wounds.
But he had a sort of duty working in the clinic. It had nothing to do with the hippocratic oath, but centered around what he promised to do properly and without bias to earn a few community service hours and a flattering medical treatment certification that he’d never need. Besides, taking care of Sol wasn’t so bad compared to some of the other repeat patients Crowe tended to. He was there much more frequently, and his wounds tended to be more extreme than those the others came in with. But he kept still and quiet when Crowe bandaged his injuries, suppressing flinches from every dab of alcohol-soaked cotton against his open gashes or sewing needle threaded through his broken skin. Sometimes Crowe wished Sol could look anything other than mildly annoyed while Crowe patched him up. The most he got was the occasional twitch of one of Sol’s facial features.
It was incredibly rare that Sol’s eyes ever even met his for the duration of the visit. He came, sat around waiting while the nurses begrudgingly prepared to take care of him, received his treatment with no fuss, and then left without a word. He’d sprinkle in the occasional tell, make it obvious he wanted nothing to do with Crowe or the questions about his day or how exactly he got hurt. But Crowe’s kindness was relentless. It made the visits much less pleasant for Sol himself. He preferred one of the surly nurses, who often opted to hand him whatever he needed to take care of himself, not caring for his needs over the prim Ichabod hovering over him. He took his sweet time carefully checking over each and every one of Sol’s injuries before sending him back to class with a disdainful smile.
Crowe couldn’t help the frustrated click of his tongue that came with a cotton swab swiftly being pressed against Solivan’s cheek before slowly dragging up the side of his face to put gentle pressure on the wound itself. He scoffed as he adjusted his standing, legs bent slightly, encroaching into Sol’s spot on the bed, slotted betwixt Sol’s, and an unbelieving expression inching closer to Sol’s face. Sol grimaced and pulled away. Crowe’s free hand grabbed onto and held Sol’s shoulder in place while the other chased after Sol’s bloody cheek with a pair of forceps.
“I told you,” Crowe whispered, shoving his knee forward with more force than what could be explained away as an accidental brush, “to hold still.” Sol grit his teeth once more, but only to muffle the harsh exhales that escaped his nose as Crowe settled into the position of kneeling on the bed over Sol, who cleared his throat and straightened his back instinctively. Sol’s face had scrunched up in pain for a split second. The sudden stimulation and the consequential mixed signals in his brain left him gasping, cheeks flushed red with usually bored and tired eyes that suddenly shot open.
Despite how smart everyone thought he was, and how much he himself secretly reveled in the minute reaction, Crowe was ever-unaware. For every centimeter that Sol pulled away from him was met with there suddenly being one less inch between them.
“You’re going to get blood on your clothes,” Crowe muttered under his breath, “How you’ve managed to avoid that so far is beyond me.” Sol chewed on the inside of his lip, still breathing unevenly. He checked over his clothes for stains, then looked at Crowe’s reflexively. To someone more used to Crowe’s layered attire, the sight of him in scrubs might have felt like seeing him naked, smooth arms especially bare in a way that only those who visited the nurse's office could catch a glimpse of. Ichabod, with his scrub shirt slightly too tight for his broad shoulders. That stupidly perfect face, his bare forearms, the exposed collarbones, and gloved, yet warm hands invaded Sol’s personal space, time after time.
“I’m trying to help you. Why do you keep moving away?” Crowe asked frustratedly to no avail. He received only a scoff and staggered attempts to move again in reply. The distance between them, or lack thereof, was less than appropriate. The only one of them who seemed to be aware was acutely aware– of the throbbing pain on his swollen face and across his body, of the blood soaking the fibrous tissue of the cotton ball against the skin just beneath his eye, and the blood pooling further down his body from the closeness alone. This wasn’t because of Jericho himself, or the subtle sheen of his supple lips in the fluorescent clinic lights that caught Sol’s eye when Crowe turned his head to grab a roll of first-aid tape and some gauze. Not at all. Rather, it was how pent up Sol had been in the past few days where his usual time alone and the material he spent it with grew somehow less satisfying. He never saw that coming. But that was all it was.
A warm, thinly veiled body was completely pressed against his own when Sol hadn’t had a proper release in so long. He didn’t care about the blood stains. He could wash those out. This shame, if Sol were caught, would be forever: most of all if the person who caught him was Crowe.
That was his initial impression.
Crowe turned back from the drawer, neared Sol’s face as he prepared to swap out the bloodied cotton for sterile gauze. Sol was entirely still once more, but even Crowe’s gentle grasp on his jaw only cemented that there was no more moving. Not when Crowe was almost done, almost ready to send him off again. Hopefully for the last time. In a few fluid motions, the gauze was pressed against his face and a couple strips of flexible medical tape left it fastened there. Crowe set the forceps aside.
When his head turned back to Sol’s, remarkably crimson eyes were peering into his. His cheek in Crowe’s hand was warm, even through the gloves. Their lips were pressed together in an instant. Neither was sure of who to blame. When Crowe sensed some semblance of hesitation, he opted to pull back, but was stopped by hands on the back of his neck. When Sol moved away for a moment to breathe, it was Crowe’s lips that seemed incapable of separating from his. Their limbs became a tangled mess of hands reaching out to touch, arms reaching out to hold, before Crowe finally committed to settling between Sol’s thighs.
Crowe’s lips glistened when he finally managed to pull away, taking a second or two to inspect the bandage and the starry-eyed look on Sol’s face before delving right back in. His back hit the cushioned bed with a muted grunt of pain that left Crowe’s hips jutting slightly up and forwards, right into Sol’s own. He practically hissed at the feeling, another sound Crowe seemed to drink reverently from his lips.
Crowe pulled away with a contented expression on his face, still tenderly holding on to Sol’s cheeks. The latter became growingly unsettled. His cheeks somehow grew warmer. The uncomfortable sensation in his pants only seemed to grow, and Crowe had chosen now of all times to take his sweet time with him. Even when Sol’s hips were grinding back into his, Crowe was still. Sol would’ve resorted to begging, but how would he look if he conceded to the enemy?
Sol was getting what he wanted, and he wanted it sooner rather than later. He had an understanding of the limited amount of time they had from the desperate way Crowe clung to him even now. His no longer gloved fingers had long since buried themselves beneath Sol’s shirt to hold his waist close. What was once too much was hardly enough for either of them.
Sol lifted his thigh, hooked it around Crowe’s waist, and switched their positions rather swiftly. Crowe couldn’t react before Sol was kissing him again, grabbing Crowe’s shirt so tight that it might tear. The first few rocks of Sol’s hips were calculated, measured in a basic tempo as he watched every twitch of features on Crowe’s face.
The Crowe everyone else knew was patience personified. But he wasn’t sure he could be when it came to this. The hints of smugness on Sol’s face when Crowe didn’t resist their new position made him want to scowl at first. His fingers dug into the other’s waist once more, pulling Sol down while raising his hips. The smile accompanied by flushed cheeks fell from his face, leaving only the expression of someone who couldn’t control his own need— even if he had the will to try. Crowe was staring at him a bit too intently, all too starry-eyed as he watched Sol lose his composure. Sol could hardly take it. He crashed their lips together, if only so they couldn’t see each other.
Sol’s expressions of pleasure were more wanton than Crowe ever expected them to be. The whimpers and pleas that left his lips were fuel to an open fire. This should last forever, he thought. The rightness he felt when their forms were pressed flush together so every inch of his skin felt every inch of Sol’s, when Sol’s plush lips were slotted against his— it should be his all of the time. Why couldn’t it be?
When Crowe came, the hair on the nape of Sol’s neck received one last harsh tug that pulled him back enough that their lips parted. One languid sigh left Crowe’s throat, followed by heavy pants as Sol sought his own release. It didn’t take long before it crashed over him too. Crowe’s fingers looped through his collar and tugged it down, eager to drink in every sound. Despite that fact, it was Crowe who pried himself away after a mere few minutes.
“I have,” he murmured breathlessly, working halfway through the sentence before he had to clear his throat, “I have a class.”