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"Guys? There's mess on the floor."
The yellow one's words weren't out of the ordinary; there was, after all, 'mess' in their house more often than not. But something in his tone-- apprehensive, almost a little worried-- made Red look over from the television.
Sure enough, he saw the littler one holding up his left hand with blood trickling down one of his fingers. Maybe two.
Red sighed and stood up from his armchair.
"Okay. Where's the mess?"
"Kitchen." Yellow rocked back and forth on his feet and pointed over his shoulder.
"What were you doing in there?"
"Sandwich."
"But we just had-- y'know what, nevermind. Would you go get him a bandage?"
Duck hmmm-ed, flipping the page in his newspaper. "We haven't got any."
"We just got some last week, what do you mean?"
"Well, we're out of them now. Just put something else on it, it'll be fine."
The yellow one stuck his finger in his mouth obediently, making a face at the taste of the blood.
"Eugh," said the red one, shaking his head in distaste.
"It's better now," Yellow declared, inspecting his now-clean hand.
"See? No bandage necessary," Duck said smugly.
Red rolled his eyes. "All right, show me the mess."
Yellow led him into the kitchen, where a knife, a broken plate, and the deconstructed remnants of his sandwich lay scattered the floor.
"Okay. Don't touch the plate; I'll get the dustpan. You pick up the sandwich stuff-- no, don't eat it now!"
The yellow one stuffed the deposed piece of cheese in his mouth as the red one turned his back to leave. He hummed quietly to himself, glad that the wet red stuff was no longer coming out of him. He didn't like it when that happened.
Then he looked more closely at the floor and frowned. There was blood on it after all, near the sink. It looked too dark and dry to be his, though. It must've come from somewhere else. He really hoped that didn't mean there would be a lesson on it.
The tall one returned with a dustpan and a broom. He pushed the bin closer to Yellow, who shoved the rest of his floor-sandwich into it with a disappointed "aw" as the lid slammed closed.
"There's more mess by the sink," he piped up as Red went to put the stuff back.
"Where-- ah, okay. Why didn't you say anything before I left?"
"I didn't see it before."
Red blinked. "What, it's not yours?"
"No." Yellow shook his head.
"Okay. Will you go tell the other one to come in here? You can just, uh... go watch your show, okay?"
"Okay."
The yellow one shuffled out of the room, and Red stared at the blood stain on the floor. Or the blood spot, he supposed. They didn't really have stains anymore.
"What do you want?" Duck asked, sounding exasperated (despite him not having done anything all day). "I was busy ."
Red pointed to the spot on the floor. It was probably his imagination, but it almost looked bigger now. "Is that from you?"
Duck opened his mouth in protest, then closed it. "I guess it could be," he said stiffly.
"From today?"
"No. Yesterday, maybe. Or the day before. Yes, I think it must have been then, because I was working on my weaving in here that day, over at the table. That was a tricky bit; I must've spent over two hours on it! Maybe even the whole night. I can't remember. Anyway, you shouldn't disturb me when I'm doing my activities. It's important to concentrate, or else it doesn't come out right. I wouldn't expect you two to understand."
His rambling stopped when the red one held up a hand. "Look, I just want to know what happened over there, okay? Or at least why you didn't clean it up."
"I did clean it!" Duck squawked. "I always clean it! I just missed that one spot, okay?" He huffed and grabbed a dish towel, ran it under the water, and began scrubbing the floor furiously, as if he was angry at the blood for existing.
Red knew this would normally be his cue to leave, but something in the bird's phrasing held him back. "What do you mean, you always clean it?"
Duck froze for a second, then shook his head. "Nothing. I didn't say that."
"Well, you did."
"Just drop it, all right?"
"Is that why we didn't have any bandages? Have you been using them?"
Duck sputtered indignantly, throwing the damp towel down in the sink. "So what if I have? I'm allowed to use the bandages if I please! I live here, too, you know!"
"That's not what I meant-- would you just listen to me?" Red stepped in front of the bird, blocking him from leaving the kitchen.
They glared at each other for a moment before Duck sighed, dropping his shoulders. "Fine. What?"
"You're bleeding. Onto the floor."
"Yes."
"Often."
Duck hesitated. "Yes."
"And you didn't tell us."
"I didn't need to. Nothing's wrong, it just-- it just happens sometimes, all right?"
His arms were folded across his chest, and the truth dawned on Red. "What happened to your stitches?"
Duck looked at the wall, at the ceiling, anywhere but the red one. "They came undone, all right? Are you happy?"
Red didn't notice how his own voice softened a little. "When did that happen?"
"About a week ago, I guess. It never really heals, you know. I just keep it closed the best I can, and usually it's fine. But I ran out of sewing thread."
"You've been stitching yourself up." Red, a little baffled by that idea, shook his head.
"Obviously! I don't want my insides to fall out, do I?"
"Well, why didn't you ask me to do it?"
For the second time in this conversation, Duck was rendered speechless for a second. "Huh?"
"You could've asked."
"Well, you're- you're not as good with needlework as I am."
Red snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're unbelievable."
"Oh, I'm sorry! Let me just not have a massive gaping wound in my middle. Would that make your life easier?"
"That's not what I meant," Red repeated. "And you know it. Now go sit down at the table."
Duck looked at him incredulously. "I beg your pardon?"
"Go sit over there. You have a sewing needle, right?"
"Yes, but--"
"Okay, then we're fixing this now. Where is it?"
Duck sank down into the chair, unable to argue anymore. "In the drawer behind the measuring spoons."
Red fetched the tool along with a clean cloth and a pair of scissors.
"There's no thread. I just tried to tell you that," Duck piped up again, sounding less agressive and more wary.
The red one moved his chair so it was just close enough for him to comfortably reach the bird, and took a seat. "Yeah. I know. Don't worry about it."
Duck sighed and reluctantly unbuttoned his tweed jacket, exposing the weird, not-quite-open-but-not-properly-scarred wound in full.
But it was too overwhelming for Red to go right in and touch the bird's chest. He continued fidgeting with the tools.
"How'd the stitches come out, anyway?" Red asked, stalling as much as he could.
"I don't know, I was just pulling on them, and--"
"Why were you doing that?"
"I don't know, all right? Now are you going to help me, or just stand there?"
"I'm helping you," Red muttered. "Okay? Just give me a second."
Duck exhaled. "Fine. Take your time... I mean, it's not like we have anything else to do today."
Both of them immediately froze at his words; Duck wanted to clamp his beak shut for fear that he'd tempted whatever fates were in charge of their "lessons"... but the moment passed.
They relaxed.
Red let out a stiff, short laugh. "Okay. Let's just do this."
He raised a hand to his... hair? String? Then he took a single strand between his fingers, took the scissors in his other hand, and cut the piece free.
Duck looked shocked. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, nearly jumping out of his chair.
"Look, I know it's weird, but... it works, right?"
"I... I don't want you on me all the time!" Duck sputtered.
"Well, now you're really making it weird."
"Don't pin this on me! I'm not the one cutting my hair to use as a thread to sew you shut!"
They both took a moment to process how ridiculous the sentence sounded, both out of context and in, and Duck chuckled a little. The whole thing was exceptionally weird, and there was no getting around that fact.
"Okay," he conceded at last. "Just... be careful, okay?"
Red nodded. "Yeah. I will." With some considerable effort, he managed to thread the needle with his yarn, then with slightly more effort, he looked Duck in the eye. "You ready?"
The duck exhaled. "I suppose."
The red one's hands were warmer than Duck expected as he gently lined up the needle with the open wound. Duck inhaled sharply as the sharp point penetrated his feathers and dug under his skin.
"Sorry," Red said.
"It's fine. I've... I've already done this plenty of times."
Red didn't say anything for a moment, focusing intently on making the stitches even.
It was hard keeping his hands steady when all they wanted to do was shake, caught in the tether between jerking away from Duck's body and running his fingers through his soft feathers. Luckily, neither happened.
"Hopefully these will last a little longer, then," he replied at last.
"...Yeah," Duck agreed.
They returned to silence until Red finished up the amateur job, snipping the excess off the end and taping the ends down.
He felt a little lightheaded-- probably because he'd been holding his breath practically the whole time. But also maybe because of the way Duck glanced up at him, looking smaller and shyer than usual.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Red couldn't bring himself to look him in the eye again right then. "Um. Yeah," he said. "I mean, you're welcome. No problem."
Duck lingered for a second, seemingly considering something. Then before he could change his mind, he grabbed Red's hand, squeezed it tightly, and hopped down from his chair.
He left the kitchen, presumably to return to his Area in the living room. And it was over.
Red's head was left spinning, pondering what the hell had just happened.