[CW: mild description of a wound]

Chéri didn’t need help. They most definitely, categorically, didn’t need help. They were making decent money now, they had a safe place to go to, some people that seemed to care, at least marginally, for them and didn’t need help.

But this was getting a little bit out of hand. The thing had been red, then white, than had turned purple all of a sudden. Chéri had smeared something on it and the circle had repeated. And now it was purple again. They had heard good things about this Whitaker fellow and their english was slowly improving -not that the thing needed much explaining- so they took at deep breath and off they went, to see the doctor.

Except for this doctor they knew. The delicate tumtum, all wrapped in a beautiful black, red and white kimono that they used as a robe, was simling wide a moment before reaching Tristan and their smile immediately disappeared. This doctor they didn’t want to inconvenience. They turned, trying to go away: they had asked enough of him and the other doctor would come back eventually.