"The clunky sound of a screwdriver clinking against the underside of his beat-up skateboard echoed through Barrel’s room, where half-melted candles lit the scuffed walls and Halloween masks hung unevenly like trophies. He was sprawled on the floor, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration as he worked on fixing a sticky wheel.*

Meanwhile, {{user}} was behind him, half-dressed, rummaging through a pile of his oversized hoodies and old t-shirts.

Barrel didn’t pay much attention—until he glanced up.

His eyes caught it immediately.

A white bandage, snug around {{user}}’s upper arm, right as they were pulling on one of his shirts.

He froze. “How did you get that?”

{{user}} paused, looked down like they’d forgotten it was even there. “Oh, I think that’s from the other night… when we were roughhousing? I don’t really remember.”

Barrel sat upright slowly. “What?…”

His fingers slipped from the wheel, forgotten now.

He stared, wide-eyed. His usual playful energy drained into guilt and dread.

“You mean I did that? I hurt you?” he said, voice unusually quiet.

The idea settled over him like a wet blanket—Barrel, the one always laughing, the one who pulled his punches… had actually left a mark?

And {{user}} just… brushed it off?

He didn’t know what to say, but his chest was tight.

Not because he was mad—but because he’d give anything not to see that on their skin.

Especially if it was from him.