Azrael didn't think Pavel noticed but he paused for nothing more than a second at those words. His lips quirked upwards inappropriately and uncharacteristically as Azrael ducked his head out of Pavel's view and began to assess what could be seen. Though it wasn't a complete expression, Azrael was quite pleased. Despite the circumstances, despite the way Pavel had spoken, a clenching feeling constricting his lungs and his heart.
Knock yourself out, Azrael – he said my name. He hadn't expected that to have shaken him as much as it did but Azrael couldn't be too surprised either. Pavel had been his entire life for seven years; obviously, the rabbit didn't know that but Azrael did. He knew the impact Pavel has had on him, only he did, and it was made clear how profound it was when he said Azrael's name. Like all of the oxygen had been sucked from the Earth and he was the last person that could breathe.
This acknowledgement of him, of him as an entity with a name, a face, a body, a presence by Pavel was akin to a fan being seen by their idol. No, not something as flippant or impermanent as that. Like a devout worshipper being spoken to by their usually distant god. Pavel was the sun and Azrael was a just nameless moon – celestial bodies never meant to meet as Azrael gazed upon and reflected his radiance all alone in the dark vacuum of space. The only one that could see him but could never be seen in return. Perhaps this is like an eclipse; I can be near him, closer than I have ever been but still, we must remain separate.
Shaking his head, Azrael pulled himself out of his strangely dramatic, melancholic thoughts and lightly prodded at the gash on the soft flesh of Pavel's waist, nestled just above the jutting angular bone of his hip. Stop getting distracted, Azrael, and pay attention. He's hurt. It oozed thick, oxygenated blood down his claw and Azrael clicked his forked tongue against his teeth, baring his fangs in a sympathetic grimace. Hissing slightly, Azrael explained, "Nothing awful, in terms of damage. I'll clean the crazes and butterfly stitch this shut. You'll probably be sore for a while, though."
Azrael grunted as he straightened back up, his wings naturally flapping a little to support him. As he turned to grab the kitchen's medical bag, Pavel caught his wrist in an attempt to stop him. While the grasp was not nearly strong enough to actually pull Azrael back or stop him in his tracks, it had the correct effect and he stood still. Looking over his shoulder down at Pavel, he cocked a brow and tilted his head. "Something wrong?"
It appeared as if Pavel hadn't really thought that far ahead, so he took a moment, glancing his eyes away, before he could actually answer. Gesturing loosely with his free hand, he finally spoke. "Can't you use your… healing saliva magic? Isn't that easier than using medicine?"
"It's not magic- never mind." Azrael couldn't fault him for calling it that, but he didn't really know how to explain the difference. "I could, but you aren't that badly injured so I don't want to put your body under the stress that it causes on those unused to it." He stared at where Pavel's hand loosely held his wrist, dangerously close to slipping down further and falling into his. It shocked Azrael that he felt like he was fighting the urge to hold Pavel's hand. What the hell is that about?
Azrael thoughts abruptly ended when Pavel released his grip on him. His hand dropped back onto his towelled lap, curled in a loose fist. "That makes sense." Pavel's face scrunched somewhat in a manner that suggested confusion but his words opposed that expression. Either way, he didn't bother to ask for further clarification so Azrael didn't deign to give it.
With that, Azrael went to rummage through his kitchen to find the extra medical bag he kept in one of the cupboards. It was somewhat embarrassing that it took longer than a minute to find, but it had been tucked away, untouched, for a long while – once again, he didn't need medicine so it was for this kind of circumstance. When Azrael turned back to go to the table Pavel was sitting down at, he opened the container to check he had the stuff to clean the wound, plasters and butterfly stitches and was glad to find he had all that and more. It shocked Azrael that he even had the equipment to perform a surgical suture, which was something he would never need. He frowned at it, confused as to when he bought it – maybe it had just come with the initial kit.
Putting the needle back, as it wasn't needed, Azrael sat on the chair next to Pavel and spread out the things he did actually need to treat him. "Face me."
Doing what he was told, Pavel turned in place, but it looked like he was about to speak. Unsure what he was about to ask and unable to predict his coming remarks, Azrael quickly applied the saline-soaked gauze against the wound on the man's waist with enough force to elicit a hiss, cutting off his unuttered words. Azrael internally apologised but kept silent. Rubbing along the gash, he wiped away dried and fresh blood alike so that Azrael could see the clean skin and bare flesh. Fortunately, the blood had begun to coagulate, so no more flowed out of the open cut to replace what had been cleaned.
Pavel didn't speak for a while as Azrael worked, though he couldn't tell if it was because he knew that Azrael wasn't comfortable with questions right now or if he had just forgotten what he had wanted to say. It didn't matter. Azrael was relieved when it stayed pleasantly quiet, for a time, until he got to the butterfly stitches. It took a little bit of fidgeting to figure out how to use them, his talons getting the way and his lack of experience using medical equipment hampering him as well.
Just as Azrael applied the second of the three he was going to stick to the damaged skin of Pavel's waist, a soft touched pulled him away from his work, startling him into a statue. Warmth radiated across a large area of his face. As Azrael's brain caught up, he processed that Pavel had rested his hand on his cheek, thumb dancing along the ridge of the deep scar that cut a line down the left side of his face. An avoidable incident in Azrael's youth that had almost cost him his eye, damaging his already bad vision. Hesitantly, Pavel mumbled out a question in that eternally soft voice, "If you can regenerate, why are you scarred like this? Isn't your blood potent?"
Azrael's cheek was boiling, flushing beneath the unfamiliar caress, though he didn't feel the need to push Pavel away. Normally, he avoided the touch of others, finding it to be uncomfortable, but this felt different in ways Azrael couldn't identify. He knew the red growing across his normally ghost-like face must have been obvious but he just hoped, for his dignity's sake, Pavel didn't mention it. Hushed, Azrael murmured an answer without thinking. "My blood can only do so much when my body his put through too much abuse. Especially when the knife cuts deep." He flickered his gaze away quickly. Azrael really doesn't know how to cope with such a personal question. "If I didn't… my body could be much uglier."
As if possessed, Pavel's hand silently slid across Azrael's face, his palm rubbing against the scales framing it as his fingers found the scar on his lip and traced the one across the bump of his hooked nose. Azrael's breath was shaky against Pavel's arm. Nervously, Azrael looked at him through his glasses, hoping that they could hide the wet sheen in his eyes as he was powerless to stop the empathy of another person touching him for the first time in a decade. He didn't know what to do. Azrael had no defence mechanism against those earnest, earthy eyes.
"What happened to you, Azrael?"