Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Iseya sank down to sit on the low, delicate wicker sofa. “Come. Let me have a look at you.”
Summer glanced back at the shrine again, and at the photo of Michiko Iseya.
Before pulling away, and settling to sit gingerly on the edge of the sofa, barely resting enough of his weight to dent the pillowy-soft cushion.
He didn’t belong here.
But Iseya’s touch jerked him roughly from his drifting thoughts, as an ice-cold, stinging-wet towel pressed over his bruise.
“This may burn a little,” Iseya warned, half a second too late, and Summer yelped, squinting one eye up.
“A little?” He hissed under his breath; he didn’t know what was worse, the pressure against the tender flesh, or the fact that the bitter-smelling alcohol soaking the towel burned. “Nngh...why does it sting so much? It’s a bruise; it didn’t even break the skin!”
“What exactly do you think happens to your skin on impact bruising?” Iseya said crisply; his head was bowed, focusing on Summer’s bruise, but he flicked a sharp glance up from under his brows. “Even if you don’t bleed from open wounds, your skin still suffers abrasions and microfissures. Which is why you need sterilization in the first place.”
Summer didn’t know what to say.
Especially with Iseya so close, both of them...barely wearing anything at all, thin pajama pants and body heat and Iseya’s arm brushing Summer’s each time he adjusted to dab at his side a little more, and Iseya touching him and yet it was only clinical, only necessity, and that shouldn’t ache so much but with that portrait looking over Summer’s shoulder, it just reminded him...reminded him...
He’d never really had a chance, had he?
He closed his eyes, trying to put the thought out of his mind.
Trying not to think, period, when having Iseya’s hands on him this way, being alone with him with this illusion of intimacy, hurt more than it should.
It was fine. He was fine. It was just...a boyhood infatuation that had flared to life again and led to him being rash, impulsive, over this strange kissing game.
He’d get over it.
He’d get over it, and respect Iseya’s need to keep his distance; respect his grief, and the memory of his dead wife.
Maybe they could be friends.
And that was okay.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth, though, as the cold-burning alcohol was replaced by something warm and thick; he opened one eye to a slit and watched as Iseya spread a thick, translucent golden salve onto the bruise, long fingertips coated in a glistening sheen and gently stroking it into Summer’s skin. A thick, heady smell rose between them, something like amber and musk with a tinge of vanilla. It felt nothing but slick at first, but slowly as it soaked in a deep burn spread into Summer’s flesh, absorbing with a soothing, pleasant heat that eased away both the sting of the alcohol and the throbbing pain of the bruise.
“What is that...?” he asked softly.
“Nothing much different from sports cremes,” Iseya murmured, voice distant, distracted. “A little menthol, a few things to cover the pungency of the smell.”
“You made that...?”
“Ah.” Iseya’s lips quirked faintly. “At one point I suppose I had a bit of a passion for herbalism. But at this point I don’t really keep my own plants anymore, other than in my office. If I need to make anything I get what I need from a local supplier.”
Summer blinked, then couldn’t help but laugh. “You mean my mother.”
“I do see Lily now and then, yes.”
It warmed Summer, to hear the tinge of affection that just barely touched Iseya’s voice when he spoke of Summer’s mother. To know that even if his mother worried about Iseya, his distance...
Iseya still felt something for their friendship.
“Mom asks me about you sometimes,” he ventured tentatively. “I think she misses you. She said you were friends.”
Iseya stilled, his hand pulling away from Summer’s skin, holding in midair while his eyes widened briefly; he gave Summer an odd look, before bowing his head and focusing on the tin resting open on his thigh, dipping his fingers in and coating them once more. “I suppose at one time, we were.”
Summer got the message.
Don’t push it.
So he just cleared his throat and reminded himself to hold still as Iseya began rubbing more of the salve into the bruise, kneading it in with a gentleness that pulled at Summer in all those ways he was trying to ignore.
Instead he changed the subject, and murmured, “So I think I’m going to refer Jay and Eli to the guidance counselor. Theodore Rothfuss, too.”
Iseya arched a brow. “You think that would be effective?”
“Yeah. I mean, I hope so.” Summer leaned back on his hand to move his arm out of the way, giving Iseya easier access to the spreading branch of bruised flesh that reached around his side. “These kids get dumped here because their parents don’t want to deal with them. And they act like they don’t care, that they’re glad to be somewhere without their parents hanging over their shoulders, but...they’re turning to us for structure and guidance, and maybe they get that from the teachers, but...” He frowned. “They need some kind of nurturing, too. But I don’t think any of these three would go to the guidance counselor on their own.”