What are Friends For [part 4]

Emmits house is exactly as Daaron remembers it. Two stories with a stone exterior and a long driveway to arching wooden doors. It looks at its best in the light of the setting sun when the red sky reflects in the tall windows to make the house look alive. Inside hasn't changed much either. The living room still plays host to the same sleek modern furniture and the TV on the wall had only changed in the sense that it'd gotten flatter and larger.
"Couch" Emmit says firmly, pointing to the brown sofa against the far wall. Daaron obediently takes a seat on the very edge of the cushion, trying not to bleed on the dark fabric.
Emmit is gone for a few minutes, allowing Daaron time to look around and reminisce. All his memories from his own house were of pain and hatred, but every one from here was good and kind. He remembers the way Emmit's father would open the door for him with a smile, or pretend he didn't notice that Daaron had snuck into the house in the middle of the night bloody and in need of repair. A smile curls up on his battered lips, and his crimson eyes scan the familiar area with more care than he thought possible.
"How bad is it really?" Emmit's voice is sharp and Daaron looks up to see the short boy walking in with a first aid kit that Daaron knows he at least used to keep under his bed.
Daaron shrugs noncommittally and clasps his hands in his lap.
"Storm"
"Fine fine. It's not that bad. Just a little beat up is all."
"Mmhm a little beat up. Sure. Give me your hand."
Daaron's brow creases and he keeps his hands folded together on his lap.
"Why?"
"Don't question me, Flinn. Give me your hand." For such a small person, Emmit is full of demanding and the ability to hold the worlds longest grudge.
With a heavy sigh, Daaron holds up his right hand, his index finger purple around the bottom and swollen.
"You're an idiot"
"So you keep reminding me."
Emmit kneels down, taking the hand gingerly into his own, turning it over so that it's palm up.
"It's not broken....I don't think" he adds onto the end. Over the years, Emmit's had to acquire some working knowledge of the human body. When Daaron would come to him in the beginning, Emmit would subject him to random attacks of neosporin and gauze, but as they got older, Emmit seemed to grow in knowledge and he'd always produce the proper cure on the first try.
"Well it still really hurts so I'd appreciate if you'd ow stop bending it!"
Emmits green eyes are dull as he looks up at Daaron, making it a point of folding all of his fingers into a tight fist and patting the swollen top of his knuckle, leaving the seemingly invulnerable, strong Daaron, flinching.