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[al_truism]

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[al_truism]

"He's going outside. If you want to visit him, you can, but he can't come in here."

Al's gentle about it. The lamb gives a little bleat.

"... come on. Let's take him home, and I'll patch you up."

[ex_apricots766]

There's a grumble, a petulant look, but he's actually too worn out to pitch a fit right now. Besides, he'll probably go back out when no one's looking and bring it back in again.

"If they didn't make walls so fucking hard, it wouldn't be a problem right now," because clearly he needs something to bitch about. He is following, though.

[al_truism]

Al gently shuts the lamb back in the pen, and it happily trots over to the rest, before waving Alois back into the house and to the kitchen, where he washes his hands and hunts down the first aid kit.

"No, you need to find softer things to punch, like pillows,"

[ex_apricots766]

Pillows are for ripping feathers out of, not that he remarks on this. Alois sits atop a counter, lightly swinging his legs and waits.

"Do I look older?"

[al_truism]

"... compared to when?"

Al blinks and sets it down, holding out his hands for the boy's arm. He has antiseptic and a pair of tweezers.

[ex_apricots766]

"Last week."

He offers one, the least bad of the two. His heels thunk lightly against cabinets.

[al_truism]

"Not really. Are you concerned about growing? This will sting-"

He pulls out the first shard, covering the cut with the antiseptic pad.

[ex_apricots766]

"I'm not tall—oww!!" A shriek, is what it became. "Al. Fuck."

[al_truism]

"I know," he tells him, not ungently. "Bear with it, these all have to come out or they'll be infected."

[ex_apricots766]

''Stupid...'' it's a quietly self-admonishing. His legs have stilled entirely, and he grips the counter, turns face, and waits.

[al_truism]

Al works quickly, plucking out each shard, the cleaning the wounds carefully. The risk of infection here is so high, and Alois could easily become sick.

When he's done, he works on his knuckles. Gentle warm hands.

[ex_apricots766]

His shrieks become softer, or he only gasps or winces, but he doesn't swear again or give Al a disapproving look. Which ever arm or hand isn't being tended to, he chews the nails of. They had been pretty, well-kept when he arrived, and now they were stubby, scabbed or scabbing at the edges.

He gnaws a thumbnail, shears it with teeth taking it down from nearly half the nail bed, and new blood immediately bubbles forth. He tastes it before hissing, and because he feels troublesome, he sticks his whole thumb in his mouth to hide it.

[al_truism]

Al reaches up to catch his hands when he finds him doing it, but the final look is one of concern.

"Alois, you're hurting yourself..."

[ex_apricots766]

''It doesn't hurt.''

[al_truism]

"It will later," he told him gently, and took his hand to clean the fresh wounds. "Do you know why you're feeling like this?"

It made him sick at heart to see.

[ex_apricots766]

Anxious? No, he really doesn't. A lack of butler-in-shining armor, expecting lights to go out again, a whole mess of things, but nothing precise. In fact, he hadn't consciously thought of it as being deliberately harmful to himself.

He shakes his head a little, while staring at the floor, and a hand comes up to meet his mouth purely out of mindless habit.

[al_truism]

Al catches his fingers softly, pulling them pointedly down from his mouth.

"You touch everything with your hands," he explained. "If you keep doing this it could get very infected. You're not in trouble," Al added, "I'm just worried."

[ex_apricots766]

Alois glances up when Al takes his hand again, before shifting to Al's face, eyes slightly widened, to listen.

''Sorry,'' because he doesn't know what else to say about it, but mainly because Al has had to say 'worried'. ''I don't really think about it.''

[al_truism]

"When it heals we'll work on breaking the habit."

Al leaned in, gave his forehead a quick kiss, and gave him a smile.

[ex_apricots766]

From Al's endearing peck, comes a lingering, doubtful gaze. An affection child doesn't always mean a trustful one.

The boy's fingers clench his shorts, resisting the urge to sensually bite his own lip, ruin more tiny fingernails, or yank Al's hair.

He smiles back, too sweetly.

''O—kay.''

[al_truism]

A second later, Al notices that tensing up, the sudden look in the boy's face, the way the smile just go strained, and realizes that he thinks Al's going to hurt him -- just like he's been hurt before.

He pulls back, stops touching him, and gives him a steady look.

"... I'm not like them."

[ex_apricots766]

''Not like who?''

A prickly question posed in innocent curiosity.

[al_truism]

"The people who hurt you."

Unflinching.

[ex_apricots766]

Blank eyes, fingers tighten, but he only laughs as dismissively as possible.

''Oh, Al,'' he says, lilting. ''I was beloved and well cared for. Please don't worry unnecessarily,'' (don't fucking pity me), ''it makes you look stupid.''

[al_truism]

Absolutely nothing about that fools him, and it shows. Alois is a baby compared to manipulators he's known, he's loved, and his whole social network is made of trainwrecks, pain, regrets, guilt, terrible pasts and blood-soaked secrets, PTSD and nightmares, true evil and those who only play at it. Al knows abuse, he knows the cycles, he knows control. What happened to Alois is not the worst thing he's seen, no matter how horrible it is.

But Alois is young, like Al was once, and perhaps many people have fallen for the smiles and pretty words.

But Al won't.

There's nothing like pity in how he looks at him, just a certain numbness, a sense of resignation despite the warmth and affection. Immovable, permanent as a stone.

"... things are different here," is all he would say.