<span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)">Casper, yet again, emitted that amused expulsion of air at the boy's crude insinuations, and didn't bother suppressing a snort of laughter at the masturbation comment. He soon realised though that laughing at his son's expense, in response to such inappropriate remarks, no less, was not very fatherly of him, so Casper soon quelled his sniggers and adopted that indifferent gaze. But, in truth, it had been a laugh laced with ulterior knowledge, because Ash had sparked a certain memory. When Miles had been heavily anesthetised at the hospital, light-headed and semi-conscious, the doctor had been thoroughly describing what bed rest entailed (to Casper, because Miles wasn't in any state to comprehend even the slightest of information) - what Miles should and shouldn't do, how much pressure he could exert on each limb, so on and so forth. Miles had been tuning in and out of the conversation in a drugged haze, not seeming to mind the many limits he was being confined to. But when the doctor had mentioned that Miles couldn't move his wrists for the next week, due to the fractures, Miles had deliriously exclaimed with despair:<br/>
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<i>"But how will I masturbate!"</i><br/>
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And silence had ensued, and Casper had stifled a snort of laughter, before continuing the conversation with the flustered doctor, ignoring the drugged Miles altogether. Which is why now, when Ash had joked about the wrist fractures and masturbation, Casper couldn't help laughing, even if it was at his son's expense. When they reached Miles' bedroom door, he scoffed at what Ash had said.<br/>
<br/>
"If Miles were to bite you, it would do anything <i>but </i>stimulate sexual pleasure. Have you seen the kid? Acne and an anything-but-athletic frame are the least of his problems." He smirked only slightly before mentally scolding himself. Had he really just insulted his son, to his son's friend? Ah, it wasn't as if it was uncharacteristic of Casper. And besides, what he'd said wasn't untrue, and he was still very angry at his son. To change the subject though, lest Ash started to think badly of him, he decided to acknowledge what the kid had remarked about his slayed Minotaur on the mantelpiece. Casper had been pleased at what the boy had said, at his personal interpretations, because it was the last thing he'd expected from a kid his son's age.<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, I got that beauty on the mantelpiece from a midget in Greece," Casper drawled fondly, as if reminiscing. "I mutilated seventeen chickens to acquire it. A very memorable night." And with that, he pushed the bedroom door open. He wasn't entirely lying about the chickens, but it wasn't the absolute truth either. Whatever. If Ash was curious, Casper would tell him. When he entered the bedroom, he was momentarily blinded by the blast of sunlight that swept the room in its rich glow, and he instantly strode to the window, pulling the curtains closed. There was still sufficient lighting, so he didn't bother turning on the bedside lamp. It was quite spacious, as bedrooms go, with a double bed and wide windows, a large oak desk and an armchair. It contrasted with the sparsely decorated living room; Miles had put up posters of corny action films, race cars, Hollywood women. Casper didn't care what his son wanted to put in his room, but had instantly stripped down the 'Fast &amp; Furious' posters because he hated that franchise with every fiber of his being. The desk was cluttered, the wardrobe ajar so that clothes spilled onto the carpeted floor. Casper was well aware of the stash of porn magazines shoved between the mattress and the bed frame. It seemed that Miles had packed away the lotion and box of tissues, though.<br/>
<br/>
His son had been asleep, but squirmed at the noise, and finally awoke. The first thing Miles saw was his father, and then, squinting as he turned to scratch his head, he caught sight of Ash. His brows shot up and he smiled widely.<br/>
<br/>
"Ash, you lil' dyke!" He exclaimed, guffawing. "Was wondering when you'd come over! It's been SO boring, cramped up in here, with nothing to do!" He tried sitting up, but failed. Not surprising, given his state, and his positioning on the bed. On the first day of his prescribed bed rest, it had been horrific; Miles had sported several casts whilst only semi-conscious, bruises and scars still very visible on his body. Now, despite time having healed a few minor injuries, he still looked terrible. His wrists were, of course, bandaged, but so were both his arms, his right one slung across a shoulder immobiliser. A bandage was wrapped tightly around his forehead too, and Casper noted that there was no blood painting any of the white cotton. That was good. That meant he was getting better. But some bruises and scars hadn't yet faded from his skin. Currently, he was shielded by his bed covers, but if those were to be removed, one would see much more of his injuries. His left leg was in a cast, his ribs were bandaged, his kneecap was sporting a prominent scar. Casper felt an inner jolt every time he saw him like this, a surge of hurt and worry and fear. For all that he insulted his son, or disregarded the stupid things he said, or purposely provoked him, he loved him - painfully so - and would go to great heights to ensure Miles' safety. As he had been doing for the past week. He then realised that this was the first time Ash was seeing Miles' injuries. He probably should have forewarned him about the extent of the situation.<br/>
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Miles, however, was blissfully oblivious to his father's dark thoughts. He was ecstatic to finally see a friend, to have some company. In all honesty, he didn't quite know why Ash chose to stick with him since the other boy could so easily acquire much better friends, friends of higher social statuses and the such. But Miles wasn't complaining. Often, he found that he didn't understand Ash's trains of thought, since his friend was a lot more mentally developed. But Miles' tactic was to nod and pretend to listen and then change the subject, and this is how he managed to maintain conversations with Ash. He'd asked his friend to bring over assignments and homework, but his real intention was to have someone to talk to. He hadn't even been intending to complete any of the set work. But now that his father - who'd obviously met Ash and knew his purpose for being there - knew about the homework, he'd expect Miles to do it. His dad had never directly told him as such, or told him off as normal parents did. But Miles found that he wanted to impress his dad, wanted his approval. He wouldn't be able to handle it if his father displayed any disappointment in him, just like he couldn't handle it now, even a week after the fight. So yes, he'd have to do his work, and hopefully Ash could help. Just then, it occurred to him that he hadn't told Ash about what had happened at all. Perhaps his dad had told him? Had they even talked downstairs? Miles tried to imagine his father and Ash conversing. It wasn't too hard, since they were similar in many ways. In fact, Miles realised that they strangely reminded him of one another. <i>Except Ash doesn't take down my posters and put weird animal sculptures around the house, </i>Miles inwardly grumbled.</span>