The Splinter

AN: This was inspired by this weekend. I had an infected splinter in my finger and my best friend had to dig it out.
I was worse than Ville. I screamed and cried and carried on. It really hurt.
I'm a wimp.

“Bam,” Ville whined. Bam raised an eyebrow. His lover was clutching his wrist, one finger pointed upward.

“What?”

“I’ve got a splinter!” he thrust the wounded splinter in Bam’s face. Bam gripped the wrist as well, his hand wrapping over Ville’s.

“Looks like you got it in there pretty deep. What’d you do?” he examined the bit of wood jammed deep into the flesh.

“I was holding on to the banister as I went downstairs.” Ville looked almost on the verge of tears.

“Wait, wait. I’ve seen you get tattoos! How come you’re sniffling over a splinter in your finger?”

“Those were different.” Ville said indignantly. “Those were self inflicted. I wanted those. I do not like a splinter hanging out in my skin.”

“Okay, well, come with me and I’ll get it out.” Bam tugged him in the direction of the bathroom. Ville shied away.

“Not right now.”

“It has to come out, babe. You don’t want an infection, do you?”

“Nooo,” Ville shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “But I don’t want it to hurt when you take it out, either.”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can.” Bam was surprised to say the least. Ville didn’t ever act like this. How could he be such a baby about getting a little splinter out of his skin?

“Promise?” the man’s lower lip was almost trembling. He looked so beautiful, he eyes big and fearful, his whole expression betraying his worry. Bam couldn’t help but lean over and kiss him.

“I promise,” he murmured when he broke the lip lock. “Now, are you going to come with me so I can fix it?”

“Yes,” he sounded sulky like a petulant child. He dragged his feet as Bam walked into the bathroom. Ville shifted his weight from foot to foot as his lover busied himself rifling through the medicine cabinet. He pulled out a tube of antibacterial ointment, some band aids, and a pair of tweezers, as well as a bottle of peroxide.

Ville whimpered as Bam poured peroxide over the tweezers. He sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and gestured for the Finn to come closer.

“I changed my mind,” he pulled his injured hand close to his chest. “I’ll—I’ll just to it myself.”

“No, you won’t.” the American
sighed. “You’ll convince yourself that your body will take care of it naturally, and then you’ll get an infection and I’ll have to listen to you bitching about that. Honestly, I’m just not in the mood for all of that bullshit. Now come here.”

Bam’s voice was stern. Ville made his way over. He would have been ashamed of the way he was acting, if only he could turn off the melodrama and see himself as anyone watching would.

“Baaam,” Ville whined again. “Is this going to hurt?”

“Not if you sit still.” The singer was standing between his spread knees. He fidgeted as Bam examined the finger in the light, turning it this way and that. He finally picked up the silver instrument from the sink and attempted to grip the sliver.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Ville gasped as a layer of his skin was ripped out. Well, that’s what it felt like anyway. He closed his eyes tightly as Bam rummaged around in his flesh and tugged out bits and pieces of his capillaries.

He felt his hand be placed above the sink, and something warm poured over it. He shuddered and felt it being dried on a towel, and then covered over some of the ointment and a band aid.

“God you’re a pussy.” Bam’s voice was too amused. Ville opened his eyes and glared.

“It really hurt.”

“No, it didn’t. You’re just a drama queen.” Bam looked at his handiwork, very satisfied.

“Jerk,” Ville sniffed. Bam smirked and kissed the band aid.

“Better?”

“Much,” Ville bent and kissed Bam on the mouth.