as the snow melts away

Hospitals always smell of bleach. And of bandages, ascorbic acid, undiluted alcohol, and despair. Nothing like home. Uri hates the ward—the white walls, the stiff sheets. He doesn’t wonder who paid for the private clinic. Of course, his elder brother intervened. Of course, he got him better conditions. As if Uri deserved them. His head throbs. The bright ceiling stings his eyes, makes him want to shut them—but the moment he does, memories flood back. Blood, oranges, the faint trace of Kenny’s lotion. Something wet splattered. A blade clattered to the floor. His hands went numb, fingers unresponsive, lashes sticky with exhaustion. He just wanted to sleep. Just for a little while. To close his eyes, escape the burning in his wrists, let a familiar voice soothe him. It didn’t work. The euphoria never came. Instead—a phone call, rough palms gripping his shoulders, the scratch of gauze. Kenny. Uri would recognize him anywhere. His touch is a law of nature, as inevitable as gravity. The pressure on his wounds stings. Expensive vodka lingers in the air. There was no pain. The alcohol had pooled at the bottom of the tub—Ackerman hadn’t dared pour it over the cuts. His thoughts were frantic, spineless. What should he do? How could he help? Uri remembers being dragged back to consciousness—Kenny’s clenched jaw, someone slapping his cheeks. Fragments stick: the ward, the tilt of his head as he stared at the sutures. The first stitch pulling ragged skin together. A hoarse gasp. Kenny seizing the doctor’s wrist. The nurse was plump. Short, red-haired, venom in her eyes. "No anesthetic! Wanted to die but can’t handle stitches?" she spat, then instantly regretted it—Kenny crushed her hand until her cheeks flushed, until she squeaked. Uri’s fingertips brushed Kenny’s knee. The fury in those black eyes flickered—fear and tenderness tangled. Since when does Kenny fear anything? The nurse fumed, adjusted her scrubs, tossed the needle onto a metal tray. She reeked of bleach, cherry perfume, something cheap. Uri closed his eyes—then jerked upright at the pressure on his shoulder. Kenny’s grip was ice-cold. The nurse was gone, replaced by a young doctor in a mask. Drops from the syringe stained the sheets. It took a second to realize Ackerman was pinning him down—hair disheveled, calloused fingers tightening. The alcohol swab burned. Then numbness spread. Uri watched, detached, as gloved hands lifted his skin, stitching it shut. He turned away. Nausea rose—not from pain, but from the realization: Kenny wasn’t just a voice on the phone anymore. Yet Uri could never hang up. Consciousness returned with clarity—Kenny hadn’t let them sew him up raw. This wasn’t some free clinic. This was Reiss’s pet hospital, where nurses wore masks, tied their hair, and asked five times a day how he was feeling. The room had a radio, a TV, a microwave. One bed. No visitors—Reiss’s orders. Not even Kenny. But he didn’t fight it. Uri wondered what his brother had said. But there were calls. Bandaged wrist on the blanket, phone pressed to his ear—Uri listened to that smoke-rough voice. "Eat something. Sleep." Kenny’s tone was flat, but he’d just stubbed out a cigarette. Payday was days away, but he’d scrape together cash for another pack. He could manage. If only Uri would just live. A soft laugh crackled through the line. Warmth pooled in Kenny’s chest. The doctors had slapped a dozen labels on Uri—diagnoses, psych evaluations. He wanted to steal him back, listen to blizzards howl outside their window. Reiss had made it clear: Between fearing Kenny and fearing his brother’s death, he’d choose the latter. He’d bash Ackerman’s skull in if he put ideas in Uri’s head. Kenny accepted it. Uri was a mirage now—fragile, glass-thin. One wrong move, and he’d shatter. And Kenny couldn’t fix him. Didn’t know how. He was all cracks and scars himself, but he clung to life like a street mutt. Uri wasn’t like that. No armor at all. "Can I ask you for something?" A hesitant whisper. Kenny grunted, flicked his cigarette butt. He’d bring oranges. The request disarmed him—just oranges. Delivered by a nurse. I miss you. No complaints. No tears. Just a quiet "love you" before the line died. Kenny’s pockets held barely enough for smokes. That night, he bought two oranges, scribbled a note, tucked it into the bag. He craved a cigarette—but this was the right choice. The craving faded. All he wanted was to see Uri—alive, unharmed. Love was like glass. You couldn’t handle it without cutting yourself. Uri thought of this as he unfolded the note. The oranges were bitter, hard. The best he’d ever tasted. Kenny’s jagged handwriting ordered him to get well soon. Citrus scent clung to his lips. Uri reached for his sketchbook—a pencil, too blunt to do harm. Graphite pressed into the page. His first reply. Kenny would never see it. Just fragments—sketches, half-sentences. Kenny never called first, but he always answered after one ring. He brought chocolates, tangerines. On payday, the sweetest oranges. Uri cursed his brick phone—no way to transfer money. He missed the stink of smoke. Missed him—his voice, his kisses, his presence. The notebook filled. The dreams grew worse—sticky cocoons, inescapable webs. Uri called Kenny once at night. Ackerman slept light, but the three missed calls spiked his pulse. Past midnight. TV static. Kuchel snored in her room, surrounded by candy wrappers—her face childlike. Lately, she drowned tea in cream, mixed cabbage with cottage cheese. Any meal made Kenny nauseous. He’d thought of buying a pregnancy test. But now—only Uri’s cuts filled his mind. What happened? Who hurt him? Uri answered on the first ring. A stifled sob. Kenny couldn’t see him pressed into the corner, knees to chest, tears streaking his cheeks. Medicine sat untouched. The lamps hummed. Nightmares clung to his ankles. "Uri? Fuck—Uri?" Kenny swore, yanked on his clothes. Buttons undone. He froze at the whisper on the line. "I’m scared." Calm, almost regal. "They won’t leave me, Kenny." Emotions cycled—rage, fear—before Kenny steadied. Car keys in hand, laces tied. Kuchel didn’t stir. The door clicked shut. "Who won’t leave?" Silence. Just breathing. Kenny sensed the rising panic—but it never broke. Uri’s head thudded against the wall. Kenny slid to the floor, back against the door. They were separated by wards, distance—but not death. Uri was alive. Swallowing sobs. "Thoughts. I shouldn’t be alive when they’re—" He didn’t specify. Kenny knew: childhood wounds, the ice-blooded father who taught his son to shoot. Targets didn’t matter—bottles or black sandbags. "Fuck that," Kenny growled. Softened his voice. "Tell me what you see." It always worked. Uri listed objects, colors, while Kenny sprinted into the blizzard. The car choked to life. The engine roared. He parked beneath the hospital window. Uri was silent now—just ragged breaths. "Look outside." A small figure, a snow angel. Uri couldn’t open the window, but his palms pressed to the glass. Kenny had come. He wouldn’t enter—Reiss’s rules. Uri would never forgive a scene where lives were saved. "I’ll stay. Sleep." A whisper. "I’ll guard your dreams." For now, it was enough. The call ended. The last light winked out. Kenny sat in the idling car, dawn creeping in. Reiss woke him—knuckles on glass, that ridiculous mustache, raised brows. No explanations. No need. The oranges, the car under Uri’s window—those would be remembered. Like love. All Kenny needed to know: Uri was safe. For now.