Stark rolled his eyes, slapping a bandage over the minor wound on the back of Kyouraku’s shoulder. “You infant. That couldn’t possibly have hurt.”
He knew, without looking, that Kyouraku was grinning. “It stung,” he retorted, and reached for the nearby table, where a bottle of sake was waiting for him, as though mocking him with its distance.
Stark reached down and swapped Kyouraku’s hand away. “It did not,” he said. “And none of that for you either. It was sake that got you into this mess.”
“This mess” being the current rash of scrapes, bruises and cuts that scattered across Kyouraku’s back and shoulders from where he’d taken a tumble down a set of stairs after tripping over the loose ends of his pink haori. It had been quite undignified and Kyouraku was still huffy because Stark had laughed for a good ten minutes – after wisely rushing to check and make sure Kyouraku hadn’t unduly damaged himself in the fall.
Kyouraku sniffed. “I am an experienced drinker. That tumble had nothing to do with the one–”
“–four bottles I may or may not have consumed in the few hours prior.”
Despite himself, Stark allowed the smile on his lips. He wasn’t angry or irritated, not really, besides, he considered heaps of stinging antiseptic punishment enough. “Yes, yes. Your alcoholism is well-documented,” he said, and slapped on the last bandage. “Done.”
“Is that so?”
Stark turned with the intention of gathering up all the medical supplies. “You’re no longer bleeding all over my quarters, if that’s what you mean?”
Kyouraku chuckled with a humorous tone that never boded well for Stark’s sanity. “Good,” he said, and moved so quickly that Stark was still impressed with the Shinigami’s speed.
But then – he reminded himself dryly as the bottle and bandages tumbled to the floor – Kyouraku was at the top of the pack when it came to skills. Both in war and in love, which Kyouraku set to prove when he bent Stark backward and kissed the daylights out of him. Not an altogether terrible reward, Stark thought. Not bad at all.